NorthNorthWest and Southerly
by merduff
Summary: The bow when overstrained will break." — Italian proverb. After House checks into Mayfield, his absence is felt by Wilson and Cuddy. Spoilers for S5.


It was a beautiful day for a wedding. The sun was shining, there were bells on the hill, and birds in the sky, but as far as Lisa Cuddy was concerned, she couldn't hear any ringing or singing. She put on the new dress she'd bought, the one that would draw men's eyes to all the right places, got Rachel ready, and tried her best to be happy for Cameron and Chase. But her heart was miles away, in a car heading to a destination where there would be no joy, but maybe hope and healing.

She left as soon as she could without attracting attention, aided in her escape when Rachel started to cry. No one wanted to linger and ask awkward questions about the absence of certain department heads in front of a screaming baby, for which she was grateful. There was no need to ruin Chase and Cameron's day; they would find out what had happened soon enough.

The first thing she did when she got home was to change into her sloppiest, most comfortable sweats. She knew she would never wear that dress again. She would never admit it to House, but she had almost grown to expect, if not enjoy, his inappropriate and demeaning comments about her wardrobe. It was, she knew, his own twisted way of showing his appreciation. And if she was honest with herself, she dressed in part to provoke him. They both had their inappropriate games. She wondered now how much of his games were a symptom of his loosening grasp on reality or just a core, unalterable part of his personality.

She wondered where Wilson was now. There had been a single terse message on her answering machine, saying they had arrived safely and he was heading back to Princeton, but she hadn't heard anything since. She tried his cell phone, but the call went to voice mail. She imagined him checking the call display and choosing to ignore it, and her voice was a little sharper than necessary when she left a message asking him to call her.

A minute later, her phone rang.

"Sorry," Wilson said. "I was in the washroom. Couldn't answer in time."

House would have answered mid-pee, or better yet, while straining through a bowel movement. "Did everything go all right?" she asked, and of course House would have had a smart-ass reply to that, but Wilson just hesitated a second longer than necessary to let her know he was thinking it.

"He didn't want me to go inside with him," Wilson replied softly. "I watched until I was sure he wasn't coming back. I didn't know what else to do."

She imagined Wilson standing guard outside the hospital, alone but steadfast, and wanted to weep. "You did everything you could."

"Did I?"

It wasn't a question she could answer for him, or herself. "Why don't you come over?" she suggested. "I think we could both use a drink. We should toast to Cameron and Chase's happiness."

"And to House's health," Wilson said, without bitterness or sarcasm. "I can be there in twenty minutes."

He was there in fifteen, and Cuddy wondered where he had been. His apartment was at least half an hour away. But House's apartment was closer. Cuddy heard the Volvo pull up in front of the house, and she stood in the doorway and watched Wilson walk up the path. They didn't speak until they were settled on the living room sofa with a drink in their hands.

"How are you holding up?" she asked.

"Let's see," he replied. "I just took my best friend — who's been hallucinating my dead girlfriend — to the loony bin. I think I'm doing pretty well under the circumstances." He smiled to show he was joking, but there wasn't even a flash of humour in his dark eyes.

She wanted to reach out and hug him, but Wilson had deliberately sat at the far end of the couch, as if leaving room for someone between them. "The wedding was beautiful," she said, because it was neutral ground. "Cameron was radiant, and I've never seen Chase happier."

"Good," he replied, and this time the smile reached his eyes. "They deserve to be happy. Did you give them my regrets?"

"I told them you'd been called away on an emergency consult." It was close enough to the truth.

"I should have told you he was hallucinating," Wilson said, staring at the floor. "But he came to me for help, and I couldn't betray his trust."

The word _again_ was unspoken, but she heard it anyway. "You did everything you could for him. He came to me, too, and I walked away." She knew she would be haunted by what might have been, if only she had just stayed a moment longer.

Wilson might be reluctant to accept comfort, but he never hesitated to offer it. "He could have stopped you. In his mind, he did. And he believed that not only had you helped him, but you'd healed him as well. You need to remember that — his belief in you. He knew, subconsciously, that when it came down to it, I wouldn't be able to help him." For an instant he seemed to curl inward upon himself, but then he sat up straight, his expression carefully determined. "What matters is that we're both there for him now. He'll get through this and be back terrorizing you in no time." He almost sounded as if he believed it.

Cuddy spent the first few days after House went to Mayfield expecting him to walk into her office and tell her that it had all been an elaborate prank. She would tell him he was an ass and assign him permanently to the clinic, and things would get back to normal. But nobody greeted her with a leer and an inappropriate comment about her wardrobe. Nobody refused to do their job, or called a patient a moron, or found a miracle cure at the eleventh hour. Cuddy realized that this was normal, and she hated it.

But gradually she grew accustomed to it. Wilson dropped by her office daily to give her updates on House's progress, and at night she imagined House shivering and sweating through withdrawal, curled in pain and retching bile, but there were so many other things to keep her mind focused during the day. Projects she'd put on the backburner for months, while she'd tried to adjust to caring for _two_ children, finally received her needed attention. Instead of fending off lawsuits, she was creating new relationships with funding agencies. She could cultivate donors without House demanding her immediate attention, or worse, deliberately sabotaging the meeting. She missed House, especially in the quiet moments that she wished would be disrupted, but her job was easier when he was gone.

At least until the first department head meeting. She and Wilson had done their best to keep the news of House's committal on a need-to-know basis, but gossip spread faster than an influenza outbreak. Cuddy managed to evade any questions by sticking strictly to the agenda, but when she opened the floor to other business, the subject was unavoidable.

Predictably, the first attack came from Jensen, who had hated House — though not without reason — for years. "Since Dr. Foreman is sitting in for the Diagnostics Department," he said, baring his teeth in a broad smile, "I assume that you've either fired House at last, or the rumours are true and he's been locked up in an insane asylum."

She could sense Wilson start to bristle beside her and was glad she'd had the foresight to sit between him and Foreman; presenting a united front, so to speak. "_Dr._ House voluntarily checked himself into a facility to seek treatment for issues relating to his pain management," Cuddy replied. "If I said anything else, it would be a breach of confidentiality." She hoped that would close the issue, but House had made some implacable enemies over the years.

"I've been saying for years that House is dangerously unstable and a liability to this hospital," Jensen continued, ignoring her disapproving frown. "I'd like to make a motion that his tenure be reviewed at the next board meeting."

"Who the hell are you to judge him?" Wilson snapped. "You couldn't diagnose your way out of a paper bag, you pompous, supercilious blow-hard."

"Wilson, take it easy," Cuddy said, putting a hand on his arm. The last time she'd seen him this angry was when she and Foreman had treated Amber against his direct wishes.

He pulled away. "Don't pacify me," he said. "He's attacking someone who isn't here to defend himself, and you're letting him."

"No, I'm not," she said and glared at Jensen. "This isn't the time or place for this discussion. Dr. House is a valuable asset to this hospital, no matter what you think of him personally, and no matter what his current situation is. If we can't have understanding and sympathy for a colleague suffering from a serious illness, then I don't see what good we are to our patients. Don't you agree, Dr. Jensen?"

Jensen finally took the hint. "Of course. I was merely expressing my concern. Dr. House has my full support during this difficult time."

"Bullshit," Wilson muttered, but not loud enough for anyone except Cuddy to hear. She frowned at him in warning. He glanced at her, his expression unreadable, but then he plastered a smile on his face that wouldn't fool a five-year-old. "I over-reacted," he said to Jensen. "I'm sorry. Now if there's no other business, I have patients to see." He didn't wait to be excused.

"Don't," Foreman murmured, when she rose instinctively to follow Wilson. "He's too pissed off to listen to you now. Give him a chance to calm down first, or he might say something neither of you can ignore."

Cuddy shook her head, but let him go. They would have to talk later about this. She understood — and approved of — Wilson's need to defend House, especially now, but there were more appropriate ways to do it. "Does anyone else have something relevant to discuss?"

This time the hint was taken, and they wrapped the meeting up quickly. She intercepted Jensen before he could leave. "Speaking of liability," she said, "I'm sure you didn't intend to open the hospital to a wrongful dismissal suit with a human rights angle."

"House has always been insane," Jensen said bluntly. "Just because he's admitting it now doesn't make him any less of a danger to this hospital. How much has he cost us in fines when he was supposedly rational?"

"House's methods may be unconventional, but he saves hundreds of lives." It was an argument she'd had countless times; she might as well have it engraved on a card that she could hand out to random critics.

"House puts hundreds of lives at risk with his antics. Disrupting surgeries, hijacking hospital equipment, monopolizing resources. What do you think happens to the patients who are shunted aside when House is on one of his missions?"

"Patients are always prioritized," Cuddy retorted, though she'd lost too much sleep worrying about the same thing. "It's the basic concept of triage, and it applies wherever there is an emergency."

Jensen grunted, and Cuddy suspected his argument had been more of a power play and less an actual threat to House's position. Jensen's department came into more than its share of reflected glory when House came through with his miracle cures, especially when a life-saving surgery was written up in international journals. He wouldn't move against Wilson either, as long as oncology was sharing research dollars with surgery, but it would make for uncomfortable department head meetings. Even when he wasn't there, House made her job difficult.

She decided to catch up on her messages and emails before she saw Wilson. She wasn't looking forward to it. Wilson would have to apologize — sincerely, this time — for the sake of good working relations. Privately, she might agree with every word he'd said, but professionally it was unacceptable. Wilson would see that once he'd had a chance to settle down.

It wasn't until later that afternoon, though, that she had a chance to stop by Wilson's office. There was no answer to her knock, but his door was slightly ajar, so she pushed it open, expecting to find him on the phone, or perhaps taking a catnap on his couch. But the office was empty. Something seemed off, however. It took a moment to identify what it was, but then she saw that one of Wilson's framed movie posters was askew, the glass shattered. The only other thing out of place was a coffee mug that was lying upended on the floor. She walked over to pick it up, noticing that Wilson's computer was still on and his suit jacket was hanging next to his lab coat.

"He's not here."

Cuddy started at the voice behind her and turned. Taub was standing in the doorway, an expression of uncertainty on his face.

"I can see that," she said, slightly sharper than she had intended.

"No, I mean he's left the hospital." Taub looked even more uncomfortable, when she took a step towards him. "I heard a crash from next door, so I came over to see if everything was all right. Wilson was standing here, looking at the poster. When he saw me, he just said, 'I'm sorry,' and then he left. I thought he'd just gone to the bathroom to compose himself, but when he didn't come back, I got concerned and went to look for him. His car's gone and he's not answering his cell phone."

Cuddy tried as well, but the call went directly to voice mail. "How long ago did he leave?" she asked.

"An hour, hour and a half," Taub replied, glancing at his watch.

Not long after the meeting, then. If Wilson had calmed down, it hadn't been for long.

"Foreman told us what happened today," Taub added, as if reading her mind. "Don't worry about Jensen. Surgery is a small world. I know some things about him he probably wouldn't want advertised in his place of employment."

Administration by blackmail wasn't Cuddy's preferred management style, but the more public manifestations of House's breakdown hadn't done much for her credibility. It would take time to rebuild her authority. "We didn't have this conversation," she warned Taub, who merely smiled and left as silently as he'd appeared.

Cuddy sighed and sat down at Wilson's desk, looking for clues to what might have set him off. He had already been on edge when the meeting started, she realized, his greeting uncommonly short and clipped, but she'd put that down to stress and overwork. Even without the need to run interference for House, or pick up after him, Wilson had a heavy caseload in a specialty that burned through doctors like wildfire.

She could tell by the files on his desk that he'd had meetings with two terminal patients after the department head meeting. In the margin of one file, Wilson had scribbled the words, _House owes me $10_, in pencil and then tried to rub them out.

Before she could log onto his computer with her administrative password, her pager beeped. She didn't recognize the return number, but the message — 911 — was one she couldn't ignore. She dialled, hoping Wilson hadn't crashed his car or instigated a bar fight or any number of disasters her imagination and experience with House happily supplied.

"Mayfield Psychiatric Hospital."

For a moment she forgot how to breathe. "This is Dr. Lisa Cuddy from Princeton Plainsboro Teaching Hospital. I received a 911 page from this number." Her lungs released when she heard House's voice, rough but familiar, in the background.

"Hand it over, Dr. Spivey." There was a muffled exchange, as a hand covered the mouthpiece, and then House's voice was loud and clear in her ear. "Cuddy. Talk dirty to me, before they take the phone away."

Cuddy understood why Wilson pinched the bridge of his nose so often when dealing with House. She could already feel the headache forming. "I don't have time to play your games, House." And yet she was relieved to hear that something remained of House's essential core, even if it was the part that made her want to slap him.

"Why is that?" House mused. "Things falling apart? The centre not holding? Or are you by chance looking for a stray oncologist?"

The relief was complete now. "Is he there? Can I speak to him?"

"Yes. And no. He's here, but he's just sitting in his car on the side of the driveway. They were about to call security when I recognised his incredibly boring taste in vehicles. What happened? Did you refuse to sleep with him and drive him round the bend, too?"

"That's not even close to funny," she said, unable to hide the tremor in her voice.

The silence on the other end of the line was the only apology she would get, but it was enough. "So what did he break this time?" House asked finally. "Tell me it was the glass doors to the clinic and that you've closed it down."

"Unfortunately for you, no. And why do you think he broke something?"

"Because when Wilson cracks up, he likes to do it literally. There's a lot of glass in your hospital. That's got to be tempting to Wild-Arm Willie."

Things could have been much worse, she realized, wondering how close Wilson had been to shattering one of the conference room windows. "It looks like he threw a mug at one of his posters. Broke the glass, but otherwise didn't do much damage. If it was a meltdown, it couldn't have lasted more than a couple of seconds."

"Let me guess," House said, no hint of humour in his voice any more. "_Touch of Evil_."

She glanced over her shoulder. "How did you know that?"

"If it was _Vertigo_, he would have gone in search of one of the women he tried to save and ultimately failed. And if it was _Ordinary People_, he'd be heading somewhere I don't have the right to tell you. Badass Orson Welles is all me. How many patients has he lost today?"

Cuddy logged onto Wilson's computer and scanned the daily mortality reports. "Just one."

"_Just_ one?" House's voice was lightly scornful. "That's harsh. Isn't every life precious? It wasn't one of the kids, I'm guessing, or he would have decapitated one of his stupid stuffed bears. They're not very satisfying to throw."

"That's right, make a joke about it," Cuddy snapped. "This should make you chuckle. There's a note in one of his patient files saying that you owe him $10."

House didn't say anything for a long time, and Cuddy wondered if he'd hung up. "So one dead and one dying. What else happened? Wilson's wound tighter than a virgin's daughter, but it takes more than that to make him snap."

"He blew up in a department head meeting," Cuddy admitted. "Called Jensen a pompous, supercilious blow-hard."

House laughed. "Good for Wilson."

"Of course you would think that." But she didn't chide him for the laughter this time.

"How is any of that untrue?" House countered, and she had to admit he had a point. "Let me guess. Jensen wanted you to go to the board to revoke my tenure. Which made Wilson panic, because he's not on the board any more, so he can't protect me."

She hadn't thought about it that way. "He doesn't have to worry about that," she retorted. "I'm still on the board." But she'd been on the board before, when Wilson's vote had been the only one preventing House from being fired.

"Even worse. Someone else has to do his job for him. Double the failure. No wonder he wrecked the poster."

"Why is he just sitting in his car, then?" It was an hour's drive to Mayfield. Wilson must have been sitting there for at least half an hour.

"Probably because I refused to see him when he drove up last weekend. And again yesterday." House almost sounded remorseful. "He just keeps coming back."

"I think maybe that's his point," Cuddy said, and had the satisfaction of shutting House up for the second time in a single conversation, a personal best. She wondered if House stood at the window, watching the road for visitors he couldn't bring himself to see. "How are you doing? Really?"

"I know the difference between a hawk and a handsaw," House replied. "At least when the wind is southerly." His voice was rough, and Cuddy remembered the horror in his eyes when he'd realized how far his mind had gone without him. "But it's been blowing north-north-west for a long time."

"Then you'll just have to take shelter until the wind changes again." It would change. She had to believe that, for everybody's sake.

"I called you so you'd know where Wilson was, but I can't do anything for him," House said. "I can't do anything for anybody right now. He's going to have to find his own way home."

Cuddy thought about Wilson wandering in the night after Chase's bachelor party, lost, and stripped of more than just his pants. And then she pictured him driving an hour just to sit in his car by the side of the road. She thought maybe he'd already found his way home, even if the door was still locked and barred to him. They would all just have to wait until someone found the key.


End file.
